Guilty Pleasure
by ceruleanblues
Summary: Quinn Fabray didn't want to admit it but they were awkward teenagers. They were two kids just sitting in detention for all the wrong reasons and explanations that Mr. Figgins hadn't even considered to listen to.


**A/N: **I wrote this to get myself out of the depressing funk that part 3 of 'Human' had left behind. This is kind of like a breather for me, until I delve into part 4, so hopefully you'll like this! There's no prominent plot, nothing much content-wise, and just a fluffy little piece.

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Guilty Pleasure**

Quinn Fabray didn't want to admit it but they were awkward teenagers.

They were two kids just sitting in detention for all the wrong reasons and explanations that Mr. Figgins hadn't even considered to listen to. Heck, she didn't even know him at all—that blonde shaggy-haired guy sitting at the furthest corner of the room chewing on a string of blood-red licorice—and she was a cheerleader, for goodness sake; she wasn't supposed to get detentions.

**Oh, so treacherous and dangerous, devious  
****You keep me on the edge**

Rolling her eyes, Quinn could already envision Santana Lopez's smirk and snarky remarks. With a sigh, she popped her gum. Her squad captain was a notorious bitch—a loud political bully—who fed and preyed on the fear of the weaker, less prominent students in McKinley High. She shivered, remembering how once upon a time, she had been a victim of one of Santana's infamous slushie facials.

The principal sauntered in, dark-skinned and stern expression, and scowled down at his delinquents. Quinn straightened in her seat with shoulders pulled to the back, arranging her facial features into a mask of innocence, eyelids fluttering in a way she knew buttered many parsnips.

"Ms. Fabray, Mr. Evans," he addressed them formally. "I must say that I am very disappointed. You're both very promising students, and I had expected more from you than the—" he cleared his throat to alleviate the awkwardness permeating in the air. "Unacceptable behavior you have portrayed on school grounds."

She opened her mouth to rebut his accusation, only to be silenced by a raised hand and a pointed glare.

"I'm afraid that whatever you have to say, Ms. Fabray, is going to be a waste of your breath," he continued on monotonously in his thick accent. "Two hours of detention for the rest of the week. I suppose it goes without saying that attempting to escape would be futile. I will be checking in on random, so please use your time wisely."

He left then, in the same manner in which he had arrived, and Quinn blew a bubble in retaliation. Groaning, she slumped down on the desk with her cheek to the cold plastic.

"This sucks," she muttered to nobody in particular.

"Well, as much as I would like to disagree, I suppose we could've met under better circumstances."

He has a voice of a Southern gentleman, a lower octave with a strong timber, and it would've sounded great on a country record, but it did nothing but grate on her nerves. After all, he was the reason why they were stuck in that particular situation.

**Oh, you are my guilty pleasure  
****So intoxicating when you know it isn't right  
****I'll keep it under cover  
****See the pressure's on cause I'm so into you**

"You can't be serious," she frowned, narrowing her eyes at him.

The dude shrugged, unperturbed. "Statistically, the probability of us running into each other the way we did, with a total of three hundred students in school, is approximately three percent to none, and while I entertain the notion of parallel universes, I can assure you that only twenty percent of those scenarios would involve the both of us in such a compromising position. However, hypothetically—"

"Could you please shut up?" she snapped as she felt the beginnings of a migraine throbbing in the back of her skull. "Just shut up."

"I could do that," he mused, still being the annoying git. "But the real question is if I would, which then focuses on my—"

"Oh, my God," she cried out. "Just shut the fuck up."

He pressed those full lips of his together in a thin line, visibly chastised, and for a lingering second, she felt a tad bit guilty. It hadn't been entirely his fault, if she was being truly honest; they were both victims of an unfortunate misunderstanding. If anything, she blamed Mercedes Jones, that self-proclaimed diva from Glee Club.

"I'm Sam Evans, by the way."

She turned to him. "I'm—"

"I know who you are," he nodded with a tilt of his head, regarding her with scientific curiosity as though she was a rare specimen, or possibly the Hadron Collider at CERN. "You're Quinn Fabray, the co-captain of the cheer squad. You had been in the running for the top spot until Santana sabotaged your chances with Coach Sylvester—"

She gaped at him. "How'd you—"

"I also know that you help out at the Soup Kitchen every Sunday after attending church with your mom, and that your red Volkswagen beetle was a birthday present from your dad before he left you and your family," he continued, ticking the facts off his fingers, and it was starting to sound creepy.

**Typical boys, that's what I like  
****And I really have to say that  
****Typical me and my appetite**

"Are you some kind of a stalker?" she shrieked. "Those are private."

He shrugged again, his trademark signature move. "I'm not a stalker; that would be too much work, and personally, stalkers make up roughly sixty percent of sex offenders that includes child molesters and rapists, and I don't fancy it being a liable choice of career, for obvious reasons of course. With the amount of lay-offs in prison guards, I very much fear for my safety if I ever end up in state prison—"

"You're doing it again," she deadpanned.

It was slightly endearing how clueless he looked. "Doing what?"

"Incoherent babbling."

He seemed offended by that. "It's only incoherent to you, Quinn."

**For destruction, can't you see that  
****Any other girl but me  
****Would be running from a guy like you**

She decided he wasn't worth the banter and left it at that, but then they were back to the silence. Glancing up at the clock, she noted that only fifteen minutes had passed since she was there, and wondered just how far her limited patience would take her before she went totally nuts.

"What's the deal with you and Mercedes, anyway?"

His eyebrows sprung up in surprise. "What are you referring to, specifically?"

Her face twisted into a grimace at reliving the experience. "Why was she all up in my face when she saw us?"

The way he deliberately avoided her gaze was suspicious enough. "I don't seem to recall her doing so."

Quinn scoffed in disbelief because he was being so naïvely transparent. "You're not going to give me that bullshit, right?" She turned in her chair to properly face him for the first time since they were thrown into the room. "She looked about ready to claw my eyes out and instill some major damage to my person."

**But now you're gonna find there is no fight  
****What I really mean to say it**

She watched in amusement as a boyish blush exploded in his cheeks. "We're not romantically involved, if that's what you meant."

It dawned on her then, a teasing grin spreading across her lips. "But you guys were together at some point, no?"

If it was possible, his reddish flush deepened. "That depends on your definition of 'together' since it could be mistaken for very different nuances. For instance, Puckerman's idea of being 'together' would be a night of meaningless sex with some hussy from the nightclub. Finn and Rachel are 'together', which simply put, they're in a committal relationship with date nights and meeting the parents, and in the land of chick flicks, they're high school sweethearts. Blaine, however—"

"I get it," she interrupted, smirking knowingly. "You're leading her on, aren't you?"

He began sputtering, syllables tumbling out of his mouth in broken, staccato words. Where it had been a hunch earlier, Quinn was definitely certain now, and some part of her was actually impressed that a guy like Sam Evans was capable of being manipulative. Sure, there wasn't anything she could use as a basis, but first impressions were lasing impressions; it was something her mom had advocated since young.

"You totally are," she exclaimed gleefully. "Who would've thought that someone like you—"

He leaned forward. "Someone like me?"

"Yeah, I mean, I've known you, what, for almost an hour, and half the time I have no idea what comes out of your mouth," she told him, gesturing animatedly. "You seem like a smart guy. You talked about statistics and numbers, and you could've been pulling my leg, but you're definitely not like the asshats roaming about the school halls. You're a mummy's boy, aren't you?"

**Oh, you are my guilty pleasure  
****So intoxicating when you know it isn't right  
****I'll keep it under cover  
****See the pressure's on cause I'm so into you**

"I certainly am not," he retorted indignantly. "And I do not appreciate you stereotyping me as I am. Surely you wouldn't like it if I were to refer to you as an airhead groupie."

She snickered. "Hate to break it to you, but I've been called worse."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

And then they were back to the reticence, back to the awkwardness. She was examining her cuticles, thinking that her nails could use a new coat of polish. The gum had long lost its flavor, and as discreetly as possible, she stuck it to the underside of the chair.

"That's disgusting."

She jumped, startled that he'd caught her doing something so unlady-like.

"That's how diseases are spread, you know," he stated factually.

"What are you implying?" she hissed. "That I'm disease-ridden?"

He held his hands up in surrender. "An average human mouth contains billions of bacteria—streptococci being one of it—while saliva contains its own enzymes that are beneficial to our health, like lysozomes, and—"

"Do you just like hearing yourself speak?"

"Do you just like being mean?" he shot back.

She blinked. "I wasn't being mean."

"Bitchy, then?"

Oh no, he didn't.

Slamming her palms down on the surface, she jumped to her feet and marched over to where he sat, regarding her with a small degree of wariness. He shrunk back in his chair as she glowered down at him, hands firmly planted on her hips, unleashing the full force of what she was really capable of as a higher-ranking member of the social pyramid.

"Now listen here, Sam Evans," she began, her voice low and threatening. "I can guarantee that in your miserably-existing life that you've never seen the bitchy side of me, and do you want to know why?" It was rhetorical; she wasn't going to wait for his reply. "Because you've never really been significant enough, but I can assure you that you'll definitely know when I'm being bitchy. Your life would be a living hell. I'd take you down like the pesky fly that you are and stomp on you so bad, you'll be begging to leave the country. This is me not being bitchy, and you can take that to the grave."

His striking green eyes were as wide as saucers, like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I—I didn't mean that—"

"Yes, you did."

She brought her face closer, their noses barely inches apart, and in the close proximity, his presence was slightly intoxicating. The cologne that he had on was woody, a bit like the alpine air freshener in her car, and when he swallowed, her vision followed the bob of his Adam's apple.

"You mean nothing to me, you understand?"

If he nodded, she couldn't tell.

**Evidently you're unaware  
****Of the chemistry you're throwing out  
****Indirectly you have no care**

Because the next thing she registered, his mouth was upon hers, remarkably soft and pressing insistently against her own in a slow rhythm. He tasted of Chap Stick and Red Vines, massaging with a skill that he shouldn't possess for someone his caliber. It wasn't until she felt his warm hand cradling the side of her face that she realized with a startling discovery that she was kissing him back.

**And I really have no doubt that  
****Any other girl but me  
****They would be running from a guy like you**

"What the hell are you doing?" she screeched, shoving him away despite the tingles that shot through her veins. Jerking backwards, she had to resist the urge to run her tongue across the seams of her lips.

**Oh, you're something that I can't do without  
****And I really have to say this**

He appeared dazed, as though he hadn't been in control of his actions.

"Erm—I—I don't—I—"

She knew she ought to be proud about it—for having rendered Sam utterly speechless when before his gob had ran off with him—but she was too stunned to formulate a witty comeback. Exhaling a shuddering breath, she plopped down on the nearest seat, the one right next to him. Together, they wordlessly stared ahead at the chalkboard, a million different thoughts running through her mind, thoughts that shouldn't be there.

"Sam…"

"Quinn…"

An old nervous habit kicked in as she began fidgeting with the hem of her pleated skirt.

"Let's just forget that ever happened, okay?"

"Agreed," he answered diplomatically.

**Oh, you are my guilty pleasure  
****So intoxicating when you know it isn't right  
****I'll keep it under cover  
****See the pressure's on cause I'm so into you**

The clock ticked on, each second a deafening echo in the room, and it was driving her completely barmy with boredom. Another full minute passed on as she continued fixating on the spot of white chalk on the board and felt her brain cells slowly die. It was going mind-numbingly well until Sam started tapping his foot against the linoleum floor in an offbeat manner, and then it got excruciating.

"Stop it."

He paused to release a sigh. "Well, aren't you a hater."

"Your timing sucks," she declared. "I could place a metronome in front of you and you'd still be off."

"Quinn, if you don't have anything nice to say, just don't say anything at all."

She tried—and failed—to keep her expression neutral. "I was only being helpful."

"You're condescending, that's what you are," he went on calmly. "Admit it: if it weren't for what had happened earlier, you wouldn't even have glanced my way. I'm well aware of my status in this school—just one of the lowly Pariahs—and you're next in line for Queen Bee but do remember, Your Highness, that Egypt wasn't built on royal hands. If anything, the Kings and Pharaohs had nothing if it weren't for slavery."

"Is there a point in there somewhere between the subtle insults to the social hierarchy?"

He offered her another shrug. "I can say whatever I want; it's up to you to interpret it however you want."

"Your drivel is giving me a massive headache," she moaned.

It was a relief when Mr. Figgins chose that exact moment to wander in and stopped short in front of the teacher's desk, studying the two teenagers with apprehensive scrutiny. Brows furrowed, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his pinstriped trousers.

"Ms. Fabray, I have reason to believe that you're not in your original seat; am I right?"

She had half the mind to give him the spoilt brat treatment—a pout, a hair toss, the whole nine yards—but that wouldn't bode well with her already tainted conduct, so she sucked it up and obediently sat back down on her own chair, flashing her principal the sweetest smile she could muster without puking rainbows all over his polished shoes.

"Now, I would expect no further troubles from the both of you till the next time I pop by for another check," he informed them, ever the disciplinarian, and exited the room without so much as a departing nod.

Quinn sagged down in her seat and exhaled noisily.

"We're supposed to be rehearsing the new pyramid combo today," she grumbled.

"Seriously, why bother?" he chuckled darkly. "It's not like the football team ever won anything."

"Well, look who's the hater now," she quipped back. "Actually, I think the more accurate word for your tone of voice is 'bitterness'. Did your dad expect you to be a star quarterback, win a trophy for the school and go to college, only to be disappointed that you're a brainy nerd instead?"

"Pretty much."

That was unexpected. "Oh."

He shrugged for the umpteenth time that day. "I'm his eldest, so…"

The awkward pause resumed.

"There's nothing wrong with it, you know," she murmured.

He looked thoughtful. "Nothing wrong with what?"

"Cheering for a losing team." She jutted her chin out in defiance. "Everybody needs a good motivation, and if that motivation just happens to come in the form of hot girls jumping around in mini skirts, then so be it. I'm contributing to school spirit, which I'm sure doesn't say much for you."

"Contrary to your belief, I do in fact exercise school spirit—"

"Math decathlon? Debate?" she goaded. "Spelling Bee? Oh, wait, don't tell me, the Science Fair."

He shot out of his chair, and in a blink of an eye, he had her trapped. Hands braced on the backrest by her shoulders, he got right up her face, breathing her in. Quinn bristled at the sudden intrusion, but otherwise glared right back.

"Astronomy," he enunciated, drawing out the final syllable.

She wanted to laugh, then. "We don't have an Astronomy Club."

"We do," he said, the hurt laced in his words. "But nobody cares."

Immediately, she sobered up, a wave of guilt overwhelming her person.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

**Oh, so treacherous and dangerous and devious  
****You keep on the edge**

He eased back a little, though the tension remained in every inch of his muscles, and Quinn had to resist the pressing urge to run her fingers down his torso and over the hard planes of his abdominals. Clenching her fists to ensure that nothing stupid entailed, she waited to see what his next course of action would be. Unsurprisingly, he began pacing, a pet peeve that she really couldn't stand.

"Stop moving, please," she whispered. "I hate that."

"Just out of sheer curiosity, Quinn Fabray, what else do you hate?" he shot back.

"My dad."

He froze.

A look akin to regret and pity almost crossed his boyish features before she jabbed her finger in the air to stop him. It was a silent warning, one that he understood, but then he held his right hand out for her to take. She eyed it cautiously, debating on the unconventional way he worked.

"I won't bite, I promise."

Against her better judgment, Quinn slid her palm into his outstretched one, feeling the rough texture against her skin as he tenderly closed his fingers and tugged her to her feet. He was warm—not clammy at all—and comfortable, and as much as she hated to admit, it actually felt kind of nice. He obviously thought so too, because an easy smile spread across his face.

"That wasn't so difficult, right?"

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Dance with me?" he softly requested.

She was thoroughly amused, but nonetheless placed both her hands on his broad shoulders as he encircled her around her waist, eliminating the rest of the space between them. They stood, wonderfully aligned, and she couldn't believe just how crazy they were being, considering they were both in detention.

"There's no music," she mumbled. "Can't dance without it."

He fished around in his jeans before pulling out his cellphone. It was one of the newest models—released just last week, and one that she couldn't wait to get—and with a few quick flicks of his thumb, a Yann Tiersen piece began floating out of the speakers. She recognized it instantly, the original soundtrack to a movie she loved.

**Oh, you are my guilty pleasure  
****So intoxicating when you know it isn't right  
****I'll keep it under cover  
****See the pressure's on cause I'm so into you**

"Is this alright?"

"Perfect," she grinned coquettishly. "I suppose your stalker skills came in handy there."

"Not a stalker, Quinn," he sniffed, even as he began swaying to the music. "And while we're on that subject, I suggest you close your blinds as much as possible. Noah Puckerman have been catching quite an eyeful every time you indulge in your nightly routine before bed. He seems to have quite a fondness to that red silk number with the thin straps and lace border—"

She balked at his statement, eyes huge and round. "That—oh, my God—that sleazy pervert—I'm going to fucking kill him!"

He winced. "Now, there's really no need for profanities—"

She thumped on his chest. "How would you like it if someone saw you in your delicates? It's an invasion of privacy, and one that could warrant a restraining order."

"Perhaps you ought to relay that message to him then?"

"Believe me, I will."

With a decisive nod, they settled into an understanding. He wasn't necessarily the best dancer—he wasn't even that good—and the attempt at shuffling his feet was rather adorable, really, but Quinn felt a calming sense of security in his strong-yet-bashful hold. The earthy, forest scent of him engulfed her completely once more, and when she closed her eyes, she could picture the exact scene in her head.

"You're the weirdest person I've ever met," she confessed. "I mean, I've met plenty in this school alone, but you're on a whole other level."

He gazed down at her with mock solemn. "Does this have anything to do with my licorice obsession?"

"No," she replied instantly, but then her nose wrinkled in disgust. "But that's actually kind of gross."

"You're not in a position to judge, Quinn." He affectionately squeezed the side of her hip as they moved to the soothing rhythm. "If my memory serves me right—and I do possess an eidetic memory, after all—I believe that as a kid, you used to dip your Twinkies with ketchup and mix your milk with orange juice. Goodness, that was just vile. I know, because I've tried it. My mom almost had me tested because you were being a loony."

"Hey!"

She made a bid to escape, but he held her back, her nose brushing against his. They stilled for a good five seconds, foreheads colliding tenderly as they held their breaths, neither one of them knowing what to do next, both waiting, hesitating.

"Are we completely out of our minds?"

He inhaled shakily. "Maybe."

"I don't hate you, you know?"

There was a hint of a genuine smile, a small lopsided one as he pressed just that much closer to her front. "I know."

"How?"

**Right now you're gonna find there is no fight  
****What I really mean to say is**

He lifted his shoulder; another shrug for the day, and she was about to tell him off for that, until he reached up and tugged the scrunchie loose from her hair. Delving his hands into her luscious blonde locks, he shook it free so that they tumbled down in waves around her face. It was insane; her entire body positively hummed with anticipation, and just who was this Sam Evans?

"I'm going to kiss you again in precisely three seconds."

"I don't—"

And he did, seizing her lips with a degree of desperation that took her breath away. It was methodical, the way he applied just the right amount of pressure to his kisses, the way he languidly ran his tongue over the seams of her mouth, prodding, learning every crevice and every surface as though she was a priceless specimen. He gave a tentative nibble, one that caused an involuntary gasp to escape her throat as she shuddered on the spot. She returned his advances with equal fervor, giving as good as she was taking, knees nearly buckling beneath her when he ground his pelvis into hers.

He groaned, a sound so sensual, it sent tingles down her spine.

"What are we doing?" she whimpered.

"Succumbing to our libidos and adolescent hormones by the looks of it," he husked against the slender column of her neck. "It's a chemical reaction when erotic stimuli is observed and endorphins are released through—"

"Shut up, Sam," she growled, grabbing onto his flannel.

"Was that not foreplay enough for you?" he smirked.

She arched an eyebrow, clearly not amused. "Are you seriously—"

He cut her off, delving down to once again capture her lips, greedy and evocative. In one smooth move, he hoisted her up onto the teacher's desk as she squeaked in surprise. His hands lingered on her thighs, and Quinn scooted closer to the edge, tilting her head to compensate for his height. It fast became a frenzied mess as her senses whirred to life. Clothes dropped to the floor in a heap of plaid and red and white, muffled thumps against the linoleum that accompanied their chorus of raspy moans and gasping sighs.

"Shit, oh shit," she muttered when his fingers skimmed the waistband of her cotton, only to continue teasing the edges, making her squirm. "I swear, Sam Evans, if you don't—"

He yanked on the flimsy undergarment and slid it down the length of her legs, leaving her bare to the world. She flickered her eyes over his shoulder to the bulletin board at the back of the classroom, and squelched the pressing need to cover herself. This wasn't her first rodeo, nor was it her second, but somehow or another, being this closely scrutinized under those intelligent green eyes made her a little self-conscious.

"Look at me."

It was a soft plea, so she willingly obliged.

"Lor Menari," he murmured as he stroked the side of her face.

She blinked.

"It means you have pretty eyes," he explained. "It's Na'vi? The _Avatar_ language?"

"Sam," she warned through gritted teeth, hooking a finger over the elastic of his navy blue boxers. "Honestly?"

"Lor Menari," he repeated just for cheeks.

With a huff, she pushed the offending piece of clothing down, over his straining member and allowed for it to pool at his feet. Digging her nails into the soft flesh of his posterior, she gave a firm pull that sent his manhood nestling into her dripping center. The sharp intake of air was instantaneous as he hissed into her cleavage, and she couldn't wait a second longer. Taking matters into her own hands—rather literally—she enclosed his rigid sex in the small of her palm, feeling the strength of his desire thrumming in her hold. He bit down on her shoulder to stifle the gurgling noises emanating from deep in his throat, but when she aligned him perfectly with her entrance, their eyes snapped to meet in silent consent.

"Now," she breathed. "Please."

He sunk into her, full and throbbing, and she cried out to the heavens. Anchoring her by the hips, he pumped into her once, then twice, and the exquisite way he was sheathed so deeply into her core almost shattered her. It was obscene, the way they were gallivanting in such crude actions on campus grounds when people were still around to catch them, but still they didn't stop, too far gone now to turn back.

**Oh, you are my guilty pleasure  
****So intoxicating when you know it isn't right  
****I'll keep it under cover  
****See the pressure's on cause I'm so into you**

"Sam…oh, God, Sam…"

"I—I—Quinn, I—"

"Did I just short-circuit your brains, Spaceman?"

Her jab came out a tad bit strangled as he chuckled.

"Is that a challenge?" he slurred, giving a punctuated thrust.

"Tell me about the nebular hypothesis."

His eyes glistened upon hearing her words, partially impressed, and Quinn had to bite on the insides of her cheeks to prevent herself from bursting out into fitful giggles. As he gathered his wits, she shoved at his naked chest and hopped off the oak desk. Spinning around, she braced her hands against the edge of the table and bent over, displaying her perfectly round derriere at his expense.

"I—well—" He cleared his throat, running his fingers over the smooth curve of her twin mounds. "The hypothesis suggests that—that the—the Solar System was formed from nebulous…stuff…material in space."

She wriggled enticingly when he pressed against her. "Go on."

"According to the nebular hypothesis," he continued, one hand trailing suggestively down her front. His fingers were dexterous, working her in ways unimaginable as she keened, and when that wasn't nearly enough, he drove himself deeply inside her. "Stars—fuck—form in massive—and—and dense clouds of molecular hydrogen, called Giant—Giant—Molecular Clouds. They are gravitationally unstable—and—and matter coalesces to smaller, denser clumps within—which—which then proceed to collapse and form stars."

She didn't know what the trigger was, but the tight coil in her stomach snapped, and then she was careening towards the Milky Way in the speed of light. A grunt and a low groan later, he was chasing after her, his nose buried into the line of her spine. Utterly spent, they slid down to the floor, sticky and sweaty from the exertion. Strands of her hair were plastered to her forehead and neck, but she couldn't be bothered to fix it. Sam looked tousled and thoroughly satisfied, and a twinge of feminine pride leapt in her heart.

"You okay?" she asked, patting him on the arm.

"Yes."

"We better get dressed."

"Yes."

She blinked, and a grin spread across her lips. "I think I broke you."

"I think you did."

Of course, then, Mr. Figgins decided it was the best time to barge in totally unannounced, in time to hear a shriek and the shuffle of clothes before he strutted back out again with a stern admonishment and another week of detention.

**Oh, so treacherous and dangerous and devious  
****You keep on the edge**

* * *

**A/N:** So that escalated quickly, didn't it? LOL! I'm not going to tell you how Quinn and Sam got detention, or their situation before it happened; that one is for your imagination. Hope you guys enjoyed that little random oneshot; I had so much fun writing something that's lighthearted, and so different from Human. It feels nice! Oh, and I had a prompt recently for a college AU. So, just a little head's up, I'll be starting a bit on that soon. Meanwhile, I'm still completing Human and progressing—albeit rather slowly—on The Housemate Agreement. Cheers!

Astronomy Jargon: Wikipedia

Song used: "Guilty Pleasure" by Ashley Tisdale


End file.
